The Aviary of Small Sorrows

Fiction

Arthur swept the porch. The grey birds clustered near the door; they did not fly, they only hopped with a wet, slapping sound. Julian stood by the railing. He had brought his bird in a cardboard box with air holes punched in the lid. It was a small thing, the color of wet slate, with a nervous twitch in its left wing. "It has not eaten since Tuesday," Julian said. Arthur looked at the bird. It had a crooked beak and a dull eye. "You are using the generic mix. The ones from the coast need crushed linseed." Arthur reached for the ceramic bowl. He sprinkled the seed with a measured hand. The bird did not move at first. Then it lunged, scattering seed across the weathered wood. "Messy," Arthur noted. "It is a difficult bird," Julian replied. "They are all difficult if you do not clean the droppings." Arthur fetched the brush. He swept the grey husks into a neat pile. He did not look at his son; he looked at the bird's feet, which were scaled and pale. Julian shifted his weight. "I thought it might have shrunk." "They do not shrink. They lose plumage when they are neglected." Arthur poured more seed. The bird chirped, a sound like a rusty hinge. It was a persistent, annoying noise that echoed in the quiet of the valley. "I will stay the weekend," Julian said. "The guest room needs vacuuming. The birds got in there last winter."